Fun and games (shall we play?)
by Soepkip
Summary: Ash is nearly eleven, hates asparagus and (as of right now) holds his father's life in his hands. If he fails, his dad dies. The solution? Win the game. The problem? Everything.


There's a note on the fridge.

A post-it note, bright yellow and it is trapped under a magnet that's not theirs. They've never had any magnets, never used their fridge to stick notes on it. There's even something written on it in thick black marker and the handwriting is unfamiliar.

Ash walks closer to peer at the awkwardly clunky letters, and frowns.

The handwriting is not his dad's, but that's all he knows. His dad writes even more messily. The words on the note however, are odd.

 **LET'S PLAY A GAME**

There's an arrow drawn underneath, pointing to the left. Ash follows it with his eyes and spots another note, this one on the cracked cookie jar standing on the counter. The counter that was full of dirty dishes last night, the counter that is now empty save for the jar. _Weird_.

 **FOLLOW THE INSTRUCTIONS OR YOUR FATHER DIES**

The words make his heart skip a beat, the smiley face scrawled below them make him want to throw up. He looks around for more notes, but none appear. He rushes up the stairs seconds afterward, hollering for his dad. When he throws the door to his dad's room open it's to find it empty. There is no furniture left, nothing. The bed with its creaky matrass springs and his dad's shelf full of old, worn books. It's all gone. There's only a bare lightbulb hanging overhead where the mouldy old lamp used to be.

"Dad?"

His voice grows more desperate with every passing moment of silence. Ash runs down again, nearly bumping into the table he and his dad ate dinner at last night.

"DAD!"

Even their post stamp-sized backyard was empty. There were no more notes to be found and after an hour of sitting on their worn couch and trying not to throw up Ash gives up. He stands up and trots up the stair to get his changed into something other than his pyjamas. He has to go to the police, has to tell them something. He puts his shirt and pants on as if he's on auto-pilot, not thinking about the movements. His head's elsewhere. It isn't until he reaches to grab a clean pair of socks that he sees it, a flash of yellow in the corner of his eye.

 **LET'S PLAY A GAME**

There has to be a puddle of sweat beneath his chair by now. The AC in the professor's office is blowing at full blast but it doesn't stop him from feeling like he's in line for the slaughterhouse. The room even feels like one, with its white walls and grey furniture. The only colour comes from the framed poems and degrees hanging from the walls. It's creepy, it just is. It makes his gut churn and his neck itch. He can't put his finger on why exactly, but with the chill in the air and the way the light glints eerily on the glass encasing the poems it's almost as if the room's haunted. Ghosts of rival scientist or human test subjects, here to warn him.

"I was very surprised to see your name on the roster, especially since you signed up so close to the end date."

He doesn't like the way the professor looks at him, they always make him out to be this nice old man but here he looks imposing, stern. He smiles likes he knows something no one else knows, or as if someone just told him something very funny and he's trying not to laugh. Which is impossible, what with the two of them being the only ones in the room.

And Ash sure as hell isn't telling jokes.

"I had to convince my dad, he was worried I am too young," he forces a smile, a grin, anything to look eager and happy to be there.

Oak smiles back and he still doesn't buy it. No way.

"You are only ten, I understand his trepidations."

"Almost eleven," Ash cuts back, "and my dad's a great trainer. He's just worried I'll turn out to be better than him."

He gets a nod for that. "That he is, and that is why you are here. You have been accepted of course, this meeting is a mere indulgence for an old coot like me. I had a bit of a preconceived notion of you and I liked to see you in person before entrusting you with a Pokémon. The little ones always grow very dear to me and I like to know what sort of person I entrust them to, an old man's worries, I hope you understand."

He curls his lips up into another smile and nods. He's in, he's made it.

"But my fears are alleviated, not that I had any, of course. I am certain you will thrive as a trainer and I think I have just the right pokémon to make sure you do."

Ash leaves the office with a pokéball held tightly in his hand. It houses a squirtle, not the one he'd wanted but he'll take what he can get. It's a pokémon. It's a start.

There's a guy sitting in the waiting, seated in the same chair he'd been in just half an hour before. He has a mop of red curls and his face has so much freckles it's hard to notice that he has freckles at all. He might just as well have random specks of really light skin, like reverse-freckles, for all Ash knows and cares. He looks familiar and it takes a while for him to find where he thinks he knows him from.

He looks like their old neighbour from the last town they'd lived in. He looks like Jimmy.

So he shoots him a smile and the answering grin tells Ash enough, he looks a lot like Jimmy. He walks out of the waiting room and past the reception desk to get outside of the lab. Away from creepy professor Oak. It's raining when he gets outside, just a drizzle but enough to make you wish you had an umbrella. He just stands there, on the curb outside the big building on its desolate hill, and lets the rain soak his hair. His shirt. His pants.

He thinks of the note and forces his hands to relax, to ease up on their death-grip on the pokéball. He's playing alright, he's in. He'll get his dad back and find whoever did this and beat them up.

He'll win.

 **LET'S PLAY A GAME**

Who is Ash's dad?  
Where is Ash's mom?  
Who wrote the note?  
Who is the guy that looks like Jimmy?


End file.
